Irishman's Honor
by ShamRockCenter
Summary: And so he lied, but he tried to make it the truth. He tried to forget the nights he spent with David, their stolen kisses and caresses and love, but there was a stubborn part of him that didn't want to forget their passions, that wanted to embrace who he was and love David and be a boy-kisser, dangerous as that was. Oneshot, Slash, Javid.


**A/N: Hello! This is my first attempt at smut... I'm not really sure how it turned out, but Javid is Javid and they are beautiful so let me know what you think. Slash, smut, yay. Review and receive cookies baked by Blush, because they were jealous I wrote Javid when they are obviously the cutest canon couple. They're upping their game...**

**This fic is for woundedhearts-here's your Javid!**

**Disclaimer: It's 2:14 in the morning, there is currently no witty way to say I own nothing. (Well, now it's 11:25, but the feeling remains.)**

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The only thing that Francis Sullivan knew about his family's history was that he was Irish; his father's parents from Mullingar and his mother's from Cork. He had been raised in a rather shitty matter, but Christmas had always been celebrated with lamb and Saint Patrick's Day with whiskey. And that was all that Francis Sullivan had in common with Jack Kelly: he was an Irish boy through and through. Not an Irish boy like Spot Conlon who still remembered his early years in Irishtown and whose brogue was known to peal through in moments of desperation; oh, no. Francis Sullivan was an American playing the Irishman his grandfathers had been, and so even when he became a new person, he kept his Irish pride with the good, sturdy name of Jack Kelly. Neither of Francis's parents had been particularly good or sturdy, so he wanted to be a person that could be liked, to be relied on. Family was important to Jack Kelly, so even as an orphan he knew that he would raise his children to be proud of their Irish heritage, for anyone of Irish descent was family to him. He sang "The Wearing o' the Green" and spoke of horses; he invented tales of his ancestors and insisted on a Saint Patrick's Day celebration each year. But the only true Irish skill that Francis Sullivan had inherited from his family was the love to drink other men under the table. Francis had always admired the big men who shot down their whiskey and Jack Kelly loved the warmth that spread from his nose to his toes with each sip.

This, Jack mused, was why he was getting drunk on a Tuesday night at Tibby's. Some of the other boys were sharing his sentiments; Skittery had been nursing a beer for some time and Dutchy was giggling with Specs, whose red faces betrayed just how many drinks they had ordered.

Jack was on his third glass of whiskey and still going strong, listening to David speak animatedly about his school and one of the teachers. Contrary to popular belief, Jack Kelly was not a roaring, sloppy drunk. He held his liquor just fine, thank you very much, and aside from some stumbled steps or slurred words you'd think him as sober as a nun.

Jack Kelly also had a tendency to completely forget entire nights that he drank, hearing in detail the past night's drunken escapades from the ever-reliable David. Or so everyone thought.

The truth was that Jack was not listening to Dave as he spoke. He was instead watching the delicate curve of his lips, pink and succulent against his fair skin. Jack was watching the way David's hands flipped with every phrase; a habit learned from his excitable parents, no doubt. And Jack was allowing his eyes to travel down his best friend's figure, over his exposed collarbone and snug vest, down his lean legs to the floor and back up again. He stared lustfully at David's arms, relishing the subtle bulge of muscle beneath the sleeve and reminiscing its feel beneath his fingers.

"Hey, Davey," he interrupted, tossing a few coins on the table for his drinks. David didn't drink, of course; he'd only had a sarsaparilla. "You wanna head back to the Lodging House, get a head start on the boys?"

David, understanding like he did every week, nodded and tossed back the rest of his drink like it was Jack's whiskey and not a sweet tonic.

The pair made their way back to the Lodging House at as quick a pace they could manage without attracting attention from the passerby. Neither bothered making conversation, their only thoughts of what was to happen. Jack stumbled into the lobby and David's fingers tightened around his biceps, supporting him as they crossed the threshold. They barely made it past Kloppman, who was always up for a long-winded chat, and half-dragged each other up the stairs into the bunk room. A quick scan of the room proved it to be empty of boys, who wouldn't be back from Tibby's for hours. Perfect. Shut the door.

And so it began in a flurry of motion, their lips connecting and teeth clashing in a desperate attempt to be closer. David's hands gripped his hips, no longer the innocent Jewish schoolboy he portrayed. Jack groaned and groped at David's ass, pulling him closer to grind their hips together. David tore his mouth away from Jack's, who panted and swore as Dave nipped his throat, biting down on the place where his shoulder met his neck. And Jack didn't worry about the marks he would have in the morning and who he would say they were from. He just ground his pelvis harder into David's for more of that glorious friction.

The pair tumbled onto the nearest bunk, that of Racetrack, and David rolled on top of Jack, lying between his legs as their lips reconnected. Jack's fingers tangled in David's tight curls, their need for release quite obvious as their hips continued to grind together. David bit Jack's lower lip and he moaned, then rolled on top of David and smiled crookedly into his mouth. There were no words, however, just sharp gasps and soft groans as fingers stroked and touched, as lips brushed skin and then lips again and tongues batted for dominance.

Clothing was discarded quickly, hindrance that it was, and Dave's ankles were hooked around Jack's shoulders, his fingernails scratching his back as Jack entered him.

And then they were one, and they saw stars as Jack began to move, and they kissed again and their pace quickened but it didn't matter because they were making love in the bunk room on a Tuesday night and Jack tasted like whiskey as David licked the sweat from his skin, and the pleasure built and throbbed between them until it erupted in a burst of unmatchable euphoria.

And they lay there for several minutes afterwards, legs intertwined in the bare sheets, hands tracing the hard planes of muscles and smooth features. They lay there and loved each other wordlessly until it became time for other boys to head in for the night.

The air was still thick with the smells of sex, so Jack lit a cigarette after lacing up his boots, still enjoying the view as David slowly dressed, never quite in the same hurry as Jack to clean up. He straightened Race's sheets before collapsing onto Jack's bunk, exhausted and satiated and still grinning in a post-love afterglow. And Jack leaned against the window, watching the streets below him as the boys began to trickle in and head to sleep. He had his share of whiskey, he'd say in the morning. He couldn't even remember anything past yesterday's evening edition.

And David would smile that tiny, heartbroken smile, and tell him that they had played cards in the Lodging House after a few drinks at Tibby's, and Jack really shouldn't drink so much. And Jack would grin his heartbreaker's grin and tell David that he was an Irishman, drink was in his blood, and he couldn't stop being what he was.

Jack Kelly was a hypocrite, and a liar. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't stop being a whiskey-loving Irishman, but he'd be damned if the boys found out he was queer. With Davey, no less!

And so he lied, but he tried to make it the truth. He tried to forget the nights he spent with David, their stolen kisses and caresses and love, but there was a stubborn part of him that didn't want to forget their passions, that wanted to embrace who he was and love David and be a boy-kisser, dangerous as that was.

And so every week it was the same. Every Tuesday, the newsies celebrated at Tibby's. Every Tuesday, Jack and David made love in secret. And every Tuesday, Jack Kelly pretended to forget the best, most honest part of his life.

David was right, Jack had thought after listening to his friend speak of a reckoning professor. The universe does have a pretty twisted sense of humor. But I ain't no pansy just 'cause I love Davey. I'm a pansy cause I ain't a man enough to admit it.

These thoughts accompanied Jack to his bunk, where he lay beside Davey and fought with all his power to remain still, to hide their love until morning.

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**A/N: Not totally satisfied with the ending... Gimme feedback!**


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